


Perfect Kiss

by jedishampoo



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Director C.G. "Chaz" Hakkai auditions a model for the lead role in his upcoming popcorn flick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Kiss

**Title: Perfect Kiss**  
**Author: **jedishampoo  
**Pairing: ** Hakkai/Gojyo  
**Rating/Warnings: ** NC-l7; mentions drugs  
**Summary:** AU: Director C.G. “Chaz” Hakkai auditions a model for the lead role in his upcoming popcorn flick. About 4400 words.  
**Author’s Notes:** For artist extraordinaire [**indelicateink**](http://indelicateink.livejournal.com/). Prompt: _Hakkai/Gojyo; intoxicated sex; 1986, a back booth of a nightclub, producer!Hakkai has his way with coked-out!male model!Gojyo_. Thanks so much to [**sharpeslass**](http://sharpeslass.livejournal.com/) for her awesome ideas for backstory and names and, of course, the beta! You rock! Title from the New Order song, “Perfect Kiss.” (If you wanna hear it: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQgsc6J15Xo>)

Club Manna smelled like hairspray, smoke, and sweat. And it was blue. Blue lights flashed like stop-motion strobes on the throng of dancers. The drinks were blue, the deejay was playing Blue Monday and the club owner’s girlfriend, Missy, was wearing a blue dress. Chaz followed her through the blue blue blue and thought about turning around and taking a cab to the liquor store and then heading home to his couch and VCR and non-blue décor. Or, there was always the San Pedro Bridge.

Then Chaz remembered the money.

“Roger said to, like, put you in the Crystal Parlor,” Missy yelled over her shoulder, chin half-hidden by the poofy blue sleeve of her dress. “And I’ll totally serve you myself, Mr. Hakkai.”

“Call me C.G.,” Chaz yelled back. He smiled.

It was false, of course, but necessary. What he felt wasn’t important, only what he needed. One thing he needed was the use of this club for his movie. He was making a popcorn movie, hopefully with the next popcorn-movie star, and hopefully he’d make a lot of money and feel alive again and his next project could be real.

This movie, though-- this movie would be fake and the final, action-packed sequence would be shot here in this club with its lights and smoke machines and giant video screens. This place was the perfectly authentic sort of phony he’d been looking for, the type of place where people went to be plastic on purpose. People like the tall, purple-haired man shimmying his way to the edge of the dance floor.

His path crossed Chaz’s momentarily and Chaz realized the man’s hair was red, only turned purple by the Blue Monday _thump thump thump-thump_ lighting. The man was good-looking and was wearing a ridiculous and ridiculously tight leopard-print silk button-down. He raised his arms and pumped his hips at a girl and his shirt rode up, exposing his navel and his flat, sweaty stomach above the waistband of his low-slung leather pants.

Chaz was more interested by that strip of skin than he wanted to be. He hadn’t had a real fuck since-- had it been a whole year since she’d died? He’d stopped screwing starlets and cow-eyed male models when he’d started living with Karen, and then she’d killed herself two years later and here he was.

The man saw Chaz staring and ogled him back, eyes wide and dilated by dark or drugs. Chaz looked away.

Chaz briefly wondered if Giorgio ‘No-Last-Name-Just-Giorgio’ was already here, somewhere. Chaz didn’t know what Giorgio looked like and he really didn’t care. He only knew Giorgio was a former model building his film resume, and he’d been recommended by his casting director, Kim, as the sort of cheaply-bought, up-and-coming, “edgy” talent that a popcorn action-flick like Burning Fury needed.

Missy led Chaz around the edges of the warehouse-sized room, finally stopping in front of a black-mesh-metal curtain. She yanked it aside. “The Crystal Parlor. So, like, whaddya want to drink?”

Chaz peeked inside the booth. It was horseshoe-shaped and had wide seats. It was big enough for a party of eight or so. A mini-chandelier cast flickering, false candlelight over a black-marbeled table. “Is the champagne blue?”

“Wha? Oh, haha. No, like, for sure. Moet or Cristal?”

“Cristal, please.” Chaz slid into the booth and folded his hands atop the table. He stared at his fingers for a moment or two, then remembered to glance up and smile at Missy. She smiled back and ducked out of the booth.

Chaz had sold most of his artistic integrity but he’d yet to compromise on production values. He wanted this club. Once this Giorgio was hired or rejected and gone Chaz would talk to Roger the Owner, get Roger the Owner’s people to contact his people. Then he’d let his PAs start making plans, blacking out club dates, arranging the sort of things that Chaz hated to arrange.

The curtain wobbled like someone was kicking it.

“Yes?” Chaz called.

The curtain opened, letting in blue light and thumping bass and Missy with two bottles of Cristal on ice and two glasses. Then it closed again and the thump droned back into mere ambiance. Chaz opened one bottle and poured a glass, drank it and poured another. He would definitely have his cinematographer change the lighting, else he’d have to rename the project Burning Blue Fury. Furious Blue Burning. Blue Furies Burning.

“Oi, are you C.G. Hakkai?” The mesh curtain scraped aside without warning and the man Chaz had seen earlier, the tall redhead, was hovering in the opening. He stared intently at Chaz with his dilated eyes. Brown. They were brown. “Hey, I, like, saw you on the dance floor. I can’t believe you’re him. You’ve got an Oscar? You look like a college student or something. You’re like... like--”

“You’re Giorgio, I assume?” Chaz said, slowly. He didn’t stand but he offered his hand. Giorgio took it and gave it a quick shake. His palm was surprisingly unsweaty. “Just Giorgio, like the perfume.”

Giorgio nodded. He slid into the other side of the booth and scooted around the horseshoe until he was only a couple of feet from Chaz. “Yeah, haha. Not my scent, though. Too Hollywood, you know? Not that Hollywood ain’t great ‘cause, like, I love it here in L.A., you know? Hey, C.G., is it okay if I smoke?”

“Haha, yes.” Chaz examined Giorgio. He was fantastically handsome. He had high cheekbones marked with two tiny scars that only barely kept him from being _too_ pretty. In the fake candlelight his hair was so dark red as to be nearly as purple as Chaz had first thought it, a gorgeous but unlikely color, like something one could buy from Manic Panic, one of those brands of wild haircolor that Karen had used to use when she was in a mood. The stuff was crap and washed out or wore out, everywhere, on the sheets and the shower-curtains and light-colored clothing.

“Thanks, man. You smoke? Nah? Smart of you.” Giorgio lit a cigarette, then laid it in the ashtray. He flattened his palms on the black tabletop and clasped his fingers together-- long fingers-- then unclasped them, then tapped out a few beats of the new song-- Pet Shop Boys? Opportunities?-- then twined his fingers again. He had sexy hands. He was bouncing like he was trying to dance while sitting down. Chaz was lightly amused watching him. If he were not merely a plastic, coked-up commodity, Chaz might have been more than amused.

Karen had been real. She’d given “Iodine Roses” the genuine pathos it had needed and that was why it had been such a beautiful film. Chaz should never have forced her into “Dayglow Nantucket,” but he had, and it had flopped horribly and she had killed herself. People said that Chaz was a wunderkind who’d peaked too early. _Who in the hell won an Oscar for direction at 23?_ they asked. He’d soared and he’d crashed.

But Burning Fury; that would make money and with money, you could create all the art you wanted. Burning Furious Blue Burns...

“I have fifteen minutes,” Chaz said.

Giorgio nodded. “I can, like, tell you about myself if you want, but I don’t feel like I’m in an audition, or I guess it’s really a job interview, because, seriously, you look the same age as me. When you were walking in with that chick in the blue dress, I thought you were like some rich kid out for a night on the town. Man, your eyes are green. I saw Iodine Roses, though. That was great stuff...”

“Your accent is Midwest, under the California,” Chaz said, interrupting. He didn’t want to hear this... person’s cocaine-fed, gushing commentary on his art. He poured champagne into the clean glass and Giorgio took it with a nod.

“Yeah, totally. I’m from Rochelle, Illinois. Hour or so from Rockford, three hours from Chicago... spent a lot of time in Chicago.”

Chaz had been an orphan from the Midwest, once. “How was your childhood, Giorgio?”

“Pretty goddamned shitty,” Giorgio said and grinned. He put out his cigarette and lit another. “Spent a lot of time on the street. But, it’s over and now I’m living my own life, you know? Movin’ up. Keepin’ it real.”

Whether or not Giorgio was real remained to be seen. However, Chaz decided then and there that he would hire him. He was utterly gorgeous and begging to be used. Chaz wanted to. Chaz wanted to use Giorgio to make lots of money. He wanted to. So many things.

“There are no drugs on my movie sets, Giorgio,” Chaz told him.

Giorgio waved his cigarette and grinned. “No prob. Only takes a coupla days to get offa coke, right? Takes a lotta energy to live the life I do, you know. If I quit this semester at NYU will you pay for me to re-register after the premiere?”

A college student, as well as model and actor and commodity? How frighteningly normal. Chaz was very deliberately not intrigued. “If I decide I want to hire you, then no excuses, and yes.”

“Gettin’ ahead of myself?” Giorgio smiled again, his teeth straight and white and saucy and stunning in the light of the mini-chandelier. He drank more champagne, lit another cigarette, and unconsciously ran his finger under his nose.

“Have you read the script, Giorgio?” Chaz asked, like he really cared. And since he was not to care he poured himself another glass of champagne.

“The-- oh, yeah. Phil gave it to me. Phil Brown. Kim’s brother’s boyfriend. Hah, I’m, like, dropping names, right? Feels more like a job interview or an audition now, yeah?” Giorgio stopped chattering for a moment to inhale from his cigarette. He closed his eyes when he exhaled. Some hidden ventilation-- a filter in the ceiling, perhaps-- sucked the smoke up in a twisting stream and whisked it away like it had hardly ever existed. “Ryan Roberts, that’s the role Phil said Dustin said Kim said you were lookin’ to fill. I hated the fucker when I first started reading but we got the background and I was thinking. He had it all, you know? Like, the wife, the career, money, fences. I mean, the fucking dogs. Then that shit happened and so, yeah, he’s an asshole ‘cause of that, you know? Me, I kinda understand him, ‘cause I got that in reverse--”

“Mm-hmm,” Chaz said, feeling uncomfortable for a moment. Instead of thinking or listening or caring he watched Giorgio’s face and his hands as he stabbed the air now and then for emphasis, all ten fingers spread wide like they’d been surprised. Not that it mattered, but Chaz liked Giorgio’s eyelashes; those were real. He liked his fingers, too. Too bad the cocaine was talking through them.

Chaz had heard that cocaine enhanced sexual pleasure and caused impotence. He wondered if those two things were always mutually exclusive.

“At first I was surprised to hear it was a... well, a _you_-film. But, like, after I read it and thought about that bastard Ryan Roberts and his fucking dogs and his _wife_, man, there’s this... I dunno.” Giorgio paused when Chaz popped the cork on the second bottle of champagne and refilled both their glasses. Giorgio was tapping the table in time with the new song: Move Your Ass and Feel the Beat, You Spin Me Right Round. Chaz felt it more than he heard it, thump de _thump_ and every song sounded the same when reduced to bass and electronic drums. “It means something under the action-flick surface. I’m glad Kim told me to come tonight, that you’d be cool with that when you were here to check out the joint. I’ve been here before. Few times, hah, you know?”

“Is it always blue?” At Giorgio’s blank look, Chaz said, “The club, I mean.”

“Oh. This month, yeah. Hah,” Giorgio laughed and lit another cigarette. His smile was. He was. He had great lips. “You know, you don’t say a lot but you’re real intense. You talk through your, like, facial expressions. And, like, you turn your head a certain way and your glasses focus just _so_, and I swear I can see your straight into your head through your eyes and read your mind, yeah?”

“Hmm.” Chaz sipped his-- sixth? seventh?-- glass of champagne. It was all bubble, very dry and light and it fizzed into his brain like liquid Valium. He wondered if Giorgio would do men. Chaz bet Giorgio would do anything if asked properly. He was that kind of eager, that kind of _I-can-take-this_ arrogant. Because Chaz’s mind was _not_ readable through his glasses and his expressions were blank: hadn’t he always been told so?

Chaz decided he wanted Giorgio’s fingers, wanted to teach them about real life. He wanted Giorgio’s mouth. He wanted him to shut up and save it for the camera and to learn disappointment. Commodities didn’t always realize their own place in the hierarchy of the world, but Chaz had a Ph.D. in failed potential. He’d been an idealist, once, and had forgotten that power, money, and lust ruled the world. He appreciated power more because he’d been powerless.

Giorgio leaned closer. “Tell me if I can’t say that, C.G. ‘Cause you probably just wanna know what stuff I’ve been in or maybe not, because I still don’t know how like an audition this is. I mean, for modeling jobs I send photos and they call. Sometimes we don’t even send photos and they call, guess it’s those couple of flicks I did--”

“No. No,” Chaz said, halting the tirade without specifying what he was saying ‘no’ to. He wanted. He would. “But I do have a question for you.”

Giorgio lit another cigarette. “Yeah?”

Chaz leaned forward and grinned. For the first time in months he didn’t want to die at all. His pulse thudded hard, dun-_thump_, dun-_thump_, sharp like the music, and his dick was already thick and aching between his legs. “How badly do you want to be in this movie?”

Giorgio’s eyes widened when he saw Chaz’s grin. He leaned back and rubbed his nose again. “Depends. What do you want from me, C.G.?”

“Call me Chaz.”

Giorgio licked his lips and Chaz watched and took another sip of champagne dun-_thump_, dun-_thump_.

“All righty, Chaz. What do you want?”

“Would you, say, give me a blow-job?”

Giorgio’s eyes widened just a little and he tossed back the rest of his champagne before answering. “Oh, heh. So this is the casting couch, yeah? Where’re the cameras?”

Flippant and flimsy, full of powdered confidence. Chaz refilled Giorgio’s glass.

“Well, would you?”

Giorgio stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and lit another. He gathered his hair in one hand and flipped it up and down as if fanning his neck. He looked at Chaz. “You know,” he began, then paused and released his hair. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. Perhaps he was trying to read Chaz’s mind. “Yeah,” he said, finally.

“Do it, then,” Chaz said. He leaned back against the black vinyl seat, presenting his crotch and the erection pushing obviously against the front of his tight slacks. Giorgio was shallow and attractive and that was all and Chaz was more interested than he’d been in a very long time. “Suck my cock.”

“Woe is me. Such evil in the world! I shoulda never left my small-town home,” Giorgio said with perfect disingenuousness. He braced his hands on either side of Chaz’s thighs and leaned forward until his breath was hot on Chaz’s belly through his thin, forest-green silk shirt. He bumped Chaz’s cock with his chin and watched Chaz the whole time he did it.

“Hah,” Chaz breathed down at him.

“You smell good,” Giorgio said, then glanced away and down to focus on his audition. He one-handedly unfastened Chaz’s black, Italian-leather belt, then the buttons and zipper on his black, Italian-made slacks.

_This was the world_, Chaz thought to himself. The world as it had been before Karen and Iodine Roses and only he had changed. He lifted his hips a little so Giorgio could pull his pants down just past his ass. _Thump, thump, thump-de-thump_ went Chaz’s heart and he closed his eyes as Giorgio’s pressed-close chin and fingers brushed and teased his erection. He anticipated the feel of Giorgio’s wide mouth on his cock.

There was a soft, warm press against his parted lips and Chaz gasped a little and opened his eyes but Giorgio had already pulled his mouth away.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it,” Giorgio said and then his wide grin was back between Chaz’s legs and _oh, fuck_, sucking hard at the head of Chaz’s cock.

“Ah!” Chaz gasped again. As Giorgio gave another hard suck or two or three, Chaz grabbed hard at the top of the leather booth-seat to hold himself still.

_Thump de thump_ went the pounding music that all sounded the same as other music and his pulse, echoing in his ears. Giorgio was a real pro, or something. His fingers were perfect, perfect for the part and they brushed his balls inside his slacks and circled the base of his cock while Giorgio sucked. Giorgio’s hair swung forward to hide his skill and to tickle Chaz’s lower belly, exposed by the hiking edge of his Japanese silk shirt.

“Ah--” Chaz breathed and closed his eyes again.

Giorgio was good but he was too good, too slow and loving. Chaz wanted. He wanted to get off. He wanted to come, not relax back into the seat and feel his thighs fall open to the limits of his half-on slacks. The burn of pleasure was a slow and tender swell like he hadn’t felt in forever. It would almost be too much when it finally broke.

“She killed my fucking dog,” Chaz sob-mumbled into the thick, thumping atmosphere.

Giorgio made a choking noise and the slow sweeps of his tongue on Chaz’s cock paused for a moment before resuming. Chaz thought again about what he’d said.

“Stop,” he said. He opened his eyes and pushed Giorgio away. He’d sunk down on the seat until they were nearly eye-level with each other.

“You wanna fuck me, then?” Giorgio said.

Chaz had been about to halt the whole proceeding out of annoyance with himself and his own sordid desperation but his cock was still hard, jutting up and flushed purple-red against his bare, pale abdomen. Giorgio was wiping his lips and grinning. Some of his sweaty hair was stuck to his face.

“Yes,” Chaz said, instead.

So Giorgio crawled up Chaz’s body and buried his face in Chaz’s shoulder, kissing his neck and making _mmmmyeah_ sounds. Chaz shoved his hands under Giorgio’s shirt and into his pants, groping everything he could reach.

Things were a little wild and unfocused for a few minutes. Chaz began to wonder if he’d let his control of the situation slip. He was wondering how to regain it when Giorgio again seemed to read his mind. He pushed himself off Chaz and to his knees, straddling Chaz’s thighs, and peeled his ridiculous leopard-print shirt up and off.

Chaz’s fingers nearly shook as he unbuttoned and unzipped Giorgio’s pants. Giorgio had a great body, long and fuckable and fantastic. Of course, male models usually did, but Giorgio was refreshingly not cow-eyed. Intoxicated, perhaps, but that was nothing new in Chaz’s world, the real world.

“You’re a natural redhead,” Chaz pointed out when he saw the hair around Giorgio’s clearly-not-impotent-cock. Giorgio nodded and laid his long fingers atop Chaz’s. Together, they slid his leather pants down his hips.

“You wanna dye it for the movie?”

“We’ll see if you get the part,” Chaz said.

They’d barely gotten Giorgio’s pants past his ass when he grabbed his own dick and began to stroke it, up and down, a lazy-slow, hip-swirling dance for Chaz’s benefit. Then he clasped Chaz’s cock in his other hand and worked them together, matching his own half-time stroke pace, watching Chaz with his dark eyes. Chaz held onto Giorgio’s ass and didn’t move, couldn’t move.

“How’re you doin’?” Giorgio said, low and sexy, barely audible above the _thump-thump_ of whatever new song was happening outside the booth.

“My dog was called Jip,” Chaz breathed. “She killed him, too.”

“You’re, like, totally deranged, man.”

“Hm.”

“Oh, yeah.” Giorgio said after a bit. He released his own dick and reached into the pocket scrunched at his thigh. He pulled out a little foil packet and tore it open with his teeth. The Crystal Parlor filled with the scent of fake-cherry lube, the kind of stuff one could find in any men’s room at any bar in L.A. Chaz was not fond of artificial fruit scents but he was in no position to complain.

Or maybe he was. Giorgio was being too fucking slow and so Chaz grabbed the packet and squirted it on his dick. Smoke and fake cherry and sweat; the smell of sex in the real world. He would make so much money, he could have anything. He wanted. He wanted to fuck Giorgio.

“Get your pants off, Giorgio,” he ordered.

“Yes, Mr. Director. Sir.” Giorgio climbed off to scooch his bare ass backwards on the booth-seat, a pretty picture of skin and black leather on black leather. Chaz kneeled between Giorgio’s legs. Then he pulled off his glasses and folded them into a neat triangle on the table-top. He made sure the cigarette in the ashtray was extinguished. He quite messily left his own slacks half on because he was the director and this was all very sordid and it was supposed to be, dammit.

Chaz dug his fingers into the soft skin behind Giorgio’s knees and pushed until Giorgio’s thighs were hugging his ears and he was staring up at Chaz with his mouth all soft and slack. He was more limber than that Australian ballet-dancer Chaz had fucked, long ago. She’d been expatriate Russian or something, called Vlana. Somewhere in the periphery of Chaz’s vision, the mesh curtain wobbled.

“No, thank you,” he called, and started fucking Giorgio, limber limbs and tight ass and long fingers grabbing in Chaz’s hair. Giorgio held him like a lover and Chaz held onto the leather seat-top, trying to keep his knees from sliding but they slid, anyway. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the rhythm in his head and his body and not the one thumping in the air, everywhere.

Giorgio was warm, breathing flesh, not plastic at all. He breathed hot up onto Chaz’s face, moaning _nnns_ with every thrust and sometimes _nnnnyeah_ when Chaz was sharp and quick with his fucking. Chaz had almost forgotten sex could be more than painful and desperate and lonely.

“Keep going. _Nnnn_yeah. That’s it. You feel so good, God,” Giorgio gasped at him, saying all the right lines to make Chaz want to fuck him harder, to work the pleasure-ache higher.

“Burning--_ahhh_Blue Fury,” Chaz told him, snapping his hips harder, his timing more jerky as he neared the point where he _had_ to come.

“You’ll make it _nnnn_good,” Giorgio said. Then he said “Ahfuck” and Chaz felt Giorgio’s calves seize up under his forearms and sticky come smearing in the sweat between their stomachs. Chaz kept pumping, body wrenched tight, until he finally came as well, and it was hard and very, very good.

He lay atop Giorgio and breathed for a minute or two while Giorgio caressed his head with gentle fingers. Giorgio was huffing like he’d run a footrace, while Chaz’s breaths were slow and long; he was as relaxed as a yogi. He tasted sweat on Giorgio’s forehead. He’d needed something, earlier. He’d needed to prove something. It seemed not to matter at the moment. Giorgio’s rush of chatter had slowed, at least.

“I would never take something to make me hyper,” Chaz said.

Giorgio laughed softly. “Nah. You need to relax, you know? But we all got our crutches, I guess.”

“Yes.” Chaz realized that Giorgio was not a mind-reader. He was just very insightful. Chaz had not appreciated power until he’d been powerless. And only when he was relaxed could he fully understand how wound-up and miserable he’d been.

He felt Giorgio ruffling his hair. “She’s, like, gonna be back. The blue-dress chick,” Giorgio said.

“The owner’s girlfriend,” Chaz said. He pushed himself off of Giorgio and straightened his clothing. He unfolded his glasses and put them on. He watched Giorgio as he squirmed back into his pants, feeling a surprising fondness for him.

“Can you act, Giorgio?” he asked.

“Heh. I’m no Harrison Ford but I ain’t bad, you know,” Giorgio said as he pulled on his shirt.

Flippant, but not really flimsy. Chaz poured them both more champagne. He used some to dampen a napkin and then rubbed it on his shirt, trying to banish some of the semen-stains. How very sordid. His foot began tapping on the floor as the dance-music beat relentlessly thumping outside the Crystal Parlor finally found its way into his bones. It was another dance song by that dance-music band. The ones who did the blue song. _Let’s go out and have some fun_. “This movie will never be truly _good_, however,” Chaz felt it worth mentioning.

Giorgio shrugged and lit a cigarette. Smoke twirled up and away from his smiling, scarred, gorgeous face. He sank down onto the booth seat, practically slipping under the table. Chaz realized he was looking for his shoes. “I think it could be, if you’re in charge. Are you gonna, like, call me, by the way?”

“You have the part,” Chaz told him. He sipped his champagne. “Robert Ryans. Ryan Roberts.”

“Oh, okay. Whatever. You’re still gonna call me, right?”

Somehow, Chaz wasn’t surprised in the slightest at Giorgio’s attitude. He’d somehow known, earlier, that Giorgio wasn’t one to be motivated by the obvious. He’d just been too bitter and desperate to care. Still, he had to ask. “Do you even want the part?”

“‘S a job. There’re lots of jobs. I wanna work with you, though.” Giorgio stopped fiddling under the table and straightened. “Are you mad?”

“No,” Chaz said. He was looking forward to working with Giorgio, too. He had a bad habit of getting involved with his actors. _Furious Burning Bluebirds_. Club Manna and Roger the Owner and Roger’s People could wait another day or so. “I think I’d like to dance. Then maybe, afterwards, we could get something to eat and talk.”

Giorgio grinned and scooted closer. Chaz kissed him.

  
**END** _Thank you for reading!_


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